


And Then There Were Two

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Holmes-Watson-Holmes sandwich, Incest, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Peripheral Incest, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John was wondering what kind of government muck-up Mycroft was calling them in on, at least until Mycroft said in a blunt manner that was more often associated with the younger of the two brothers, “We’d like to have sex with you.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then There Were Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Megg33k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/gifts).



> For Meg, the other winner of my 500 follower giveaway on tumblr. She wanted John sandwiched between Mycroft and Sherlock.
> 
> All my love and thanks to my beta, [Neara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nearamalfore).

Few things changed after Sherlock settled back into 221B Baker Street following his year-long absence. After the first month or so, John fitted back into the routine—or lack of routine—that was part and parcel of living with the world’s only consulting detective.

But there were a few key moments that John couldn’t shake. Their first hug, the first embrace they ever gave one another, when John came back from the shops one day to hear the violin being played. At first, some mix of anger and annoyance bubbled up. Who would be in their flat, and who would be such a prick as to play the dead man’s violin? The one that only ever got touched when Mrs. Hudson dusted, and then only by the feathers of her duster. But hope was quick to follow, a hope John had shoved aside for months. He dropped the groceries in the entryway, didn’t even bother shutting the door, and took the stairs two at a time. And suddenly he was there, back in John’s life, very much not dead, and John fell against him, hugging him, clinging to him, making sure that, yes, he was very real, and very alive. And, after a tentative breath, after a brief break to put down his instrument, Sherlock Holmes hugged him back.

The anger returned, and John’s fist collided with Sherlock’s jaw, and he stormed out of 221 as fast as he had rushed in. And he was still angry a month later, after Moran was dead, when they hugged a second time. But the anger was subsiding and came less frequently and eventually blended back into the general annoyance that came with living with the world’s only consulting detective.

Then there was the handjob, or the abandoned handjob rather. They’d come home from their first big case since Sherlock’s return, about six weeks after the second hug. Adrenaline was high, they were smiling and giggling like schoolgirls, and just inside their flat, Sherlock pinned John to the open door. And John let him, let Sherlock unbutton and unzip his jeans, let him slide his hand into his pants, cradle John’s prick, which was becoming less flaccid by the second. And then Sherlock leaned in to kiss him, to say something, and John pushed him away. He wasn’t sure why, couldn’t explain it even now, half a year later, but after that Sherlock didn’t stand as close to John, didn’t brush his side as they went to and fro about London. That night, John went upstairs, refused to let himself finish what Sherlock started; he reviewed every muscle and bone in his body until his mind was far enough away that he went limp and could maybe sleep without dreaming of his best friend’s hand on his cock. That last bit didn’t work out particularly well.

And then came the March after Sherlock’s return from the dead, some nine months after their first hug. John came home from coffee with a woman who, by the time she pecked him on the cheek and left the café, John knew he didn’t have a bloody chance with. He shrugged off the disappointment and went home, only to find—not one—but two Holmes brothers waiting for him. Mycroft vacated John’s chair for him and, oddly, went to stand by Sherlock’s. They were both studying him in that very Holmesian way that made most people cringe, a look John had grown used to, but receiving it double brought that old uncomfortable feeling back. That, and he had the vague impression of a schoolboy being sat down for a lecture.

John was wondering what kind of government muck-up Mycroft was calling them in on, at least until Mycroft said in a blunt manner that was more often associated with the younger of the two brothers, “We’d like to have sex with you.”

Sherlock, with his fingertips pressed together casually in front of him, rolled his eyes. But his focus remained entirely on John’s reaction.

For his part, John’s brain temporarily shut down. Once it revved up again, it let out a silent stream of _nope nope nope_ in John’s head. Initially, the rest of his brain assumed that negative response was intended to be spoken aloud. He had even opened his mouth to say as much, but he closed it again when that less frantic cluster of brain cells began thinking twice about what that no was really about. And as suddenly as Sherlock solved a case, John realised that no was just a reaction to the surrealism of what had just been dumped in John’s lap.

Alright, so he’d experimented with anal pleasure before—he was a doctor, for christ’s sake, he knew what prostate stimulation did to a man. It was too intriguing not to try, and pleasurable enough to try more than once. But it had always been alone, with his own fingers, and enough lube to satisfy the porn industry for a year.

And okay, so he’d given a guy head before. In college. With a lot of alcoholic lubrication. And, in an odd way, with his pride on the line. Apparently all the women he’d slept with raved about the oral he gave. He knew he was good, but had hadn’t been aware his exes and one night stands talked about it. So in the midst of his slight embarrassment, but mostly drunken pride, one guy, already sitting lazily on a sofa with his knees spread wide, challenged him to prove it. There were dozens of oohs around John, and he felt more than a little smug. So, in front of twenty or so people, he sucked off another guy. And swallowed. Of course it was nowhere close to giving head to a woman, but John was a fast learner. Always had been. Something he forgot about himself living and working with Sherlock, but nothing that had changed since his college days. He found out later that the guy was gay and that he’d had a pretty severe crush on John for some time. At the time, John felt a bit guilty about the whole thing, but as polite as he tried to be in letting him down, he was firm. He even suggested the name of a fellow pre-med student who everyone was sure was at least bi.

Odd as it was—or maybe it wasn’t so odd—sitting there with the Holmes brothers waiting stoically for his reply, John thought about that guy. He couldn’t even remember his name, but his brain suddenly latched onto that memory and asked _what if_. What if he’d tried his boundaries, what if he had found out he really was bi. He knew he wasn’t gay—he loved women and shagging them too much to be gay. But maybe if he’d given that guy a chance, given himself a chance, he wouldn’t be so squeamish now with two men offering to fuck him. Or let him fuck them. Or whatever.

Except John felt very much not squeamish about the prospect. And just as quickly as he remembered that guy and the acclaimed amazing head he gave him even though he’d never done it before, scenarios involving the Holmes brothers flickered through his mind. A startling number included both of them at once. So when John finally found his voice, he asked—oh god was he actually saying this—with probably the best poker face of his life, “At the same time?”

Both pairs of eyebrows rose. With curiosity? Arousal? Fuck if John knew. Sherlock and Mycroft looked at each other in that brief telepathic way and, when they turned back to John, Mycroft said, “If that’s what you want.”

And oh god did John want. He wanted very much. Even Mycroft, who he’d never considered like that before. Except maybe that one time because, let’s face it, the idea of a man full of government secrets with a clean-cut attractiveness pinning John down—or maybe being pinned down by John—had a very James Bond allure to it.

John wasn’t quite sure how to proceed from here. The last, and only, time he’d been involved with a threesome was yet another one of his party days. He hadn’t been an extensive party-goer, but whenever he did go, things always seemed to happen to him. Like giving another man a blow job, or having two women entirely intent on giving him a show and then bringing him off with two pairs of lips, tongues, hands. So he wasn’t really sure how to be an active participant in a threesome with two other men. He didn’t even know where to start, especially while he was completely sober.

Mycroft was the first to move after the decision had been made. He started toward Sherlock’s bedroom, working at the buttons of his waistcoat as he went. That left John and Sherlock with a moment alone, staring at one another. This whole time, John’s flatmate had been quiet. He’d let Mycroft do the talking, the negotiating of sorts. Very un-Sherlock.

But John could guess why. Coming straight out with his desires was a long time coming, even though he used Mycroft as a medium. At least six months in the making, ever since he’d had John pinned to the door and his hand wrapped around John’s cock. That was a sensation John had not been able to fully push aside. He’d dreamt about it more than once, wanked to it in the shower a couple times when he knew Sherlock was out. His own hand was nothing in comparison, though, nothing to those fingers. God, he was getting hard just remembering it.

Sherlock stood and started toward his bedroom. John grabbed his sleeve as he went by and looked up at him. “Why is he here?” His voice wasn’t accusatory or angry. He kept it level and purely curious.

“I thought he made that clear,” Sherlock said. His voice was off, but not in a way John could pinpoint at that moment. “If you don’t—”

But John wasn’t going to let him finish that sentence. He stood up and pulled off his jumper, striding ahead of Sherlock through the kitchen. If Sherlock wanted to play this game, then fine. John would play it too. He was about to shag and get shagged by two very handsome and extraordinarily brilliant men, both of whom wanted him, plain old John Watson. Sherlock wasn’t going to ruin that now that he’d started it.

Sherlock followed him. By the time they reached the bedroom, Mycroft was bare arse naked and digging in Sherlock’s drawers, probably for supplies.

“Other one,” Sherlock said, not appearing particularly thrown by the sight of his brother nude on his bed.

Which led John to wonder if they’d done something like this before, fucked the same person together, or if they’d even done something more intimate. And that was an image John roughly shoved away. Besides, these were the Holmes brothers. A little nudity wasn’t going to make them flinch, even in this bizarre context.

While Mycroft stretched across the bed to the other nightstand, John and Sherlock finished stripping. There was nothing romantic about it. For the moment, it was very military. For a very brief moment.

Mycroft dropped the condoms and lube on the bed, and when John took a tentative step forward, the older Holmes brother reached out, tugged his waist, and pulled him into a good snog. John was still from shock more than anything else, but after that initial split second, he sank against Mycroft and into the kiss. Suddenly there was another body pressed against him, Sherlock curving into his back, kissing his shoulders and the back of his neck, running his fingers up through John’s hair.

When he had to break away from Mycroft’s lips or else suffocate, Mycroft spoke, and John found the usual business tone had given way to something more—visceral. “Who would you prefer penetrated you?”

John swallowed hard. “Sherlock.” He didn’t have to think about it. If he was going to trust someone to put their cock in him, for the first time, out of his line of sight, it was going to be Sherlock. And everyone seemed to understand and accept this.

Mycroft handed Sherlock the lube before he slid back on the bed and spread his thighs. John crawled forward, wrapping his hand around the base of the shaft. Mycroft shivered at his touch.

“It’s been a while,” John muttered. No one said anything, so John pulled back the foreskin and wrapped his lips around the head of Mycroft’s hardening prick.

For a moment it was just them, John and Mycroft, John sucking and licking Mycroft’s cock, Mycroft’s hand buried in John’s hair, John’s hand cupping Mycroft’s testicles, Mycroft’s moans driving John on.

And then there was a hand on John’s arse, and he paused just long enough to register that it was Sherlock. As soon as he managed to return his focus to Mycroft, though, a cool slick finger circled his arsehole.

John’s flight or fight response kicked in and his heart rate doubled and a wave of panic surrounded him because that was not his finger about to penetrate him. That was very much not his finger. It was Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s finger about to push into him. Sherlock’s finger almost in his arse, and Mycroft’s prick in his mouth, and what the hell was he doing.

It was no shock that both of the Holmes brothers noticed his momentary shock. Mycroft went silent above him, and Sherlock took his finger away. John pulled his mouth off Mycroft and sat back on his heels. He stared at a bare patch of sheets. Sherlock’s sheets.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft started.

John shook his head, cutting him off. “Just give me a minute,” he said, his voice surprisingly hoarse.

“If it’s too much,” Sherlock started in behind him.

“Shut up and just give me a minute,” John snapped. “I can’t- I can’t acclimate like you two. So just hold on for five fucking seconds.”

And they did. John Watson had gotten both the Holmes brothers to simultaneously shut up and stay still, and that was enough for him to regain his composure. After all, John Watson had always been a fighter.

He lowered himself back onto Mycroft, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing. Sherlock’s finger returned to his arse, and John forced himself to keep going, to keep a tight suction around Mycroft’s cock even as his hips bucked slightly. But god, that finger was slow, circling his entrance too long, and he pushed back just to enough to give Sherlock the all clear. It wasn’t lost on Sherlock, of course it wasn’t, and then that finger was inside him, pressing carefully through one ring of muscles, and then the next, and John moaned around Mycroft’s prick, and the vibration carried up through Mycroft and echoed out of his lips.

John kept his eyes closed, not sure if he was quite ready to incorporate another bombardment of sensation. The touch, taste, smell were all heady enough on their own with one person. Multiplied, John wasn’t sure if he’d be able to tell left from right if someone asked him to.

By the time he finally opened his eyes again, Sherlock had two fingers slowly stretching him. What John had failed to notice, however, was that while Sherlock was fingering him and he was sucking off Mycroft, Mycroft had gotten hold of the lube and was now fingering himself. John had noticed some shifting, but he assumed it was to get into a more comfortable position. The sight made John unintentionally swallow, which brought a groaned _fuck_ from Mycroft’s mouth.

John smiled, as much as he could with a cock in his mouth. Something about Mycroft swearing, regardless of the situation—though this situation certainly added to it—amused John to no end. He pulled off with a satisfying pop and looked up at Mycroft, who met his lidded gaze with blown, dark eyes. Yes, it was definitely amusing seeing Mycroft Holmes in this position. And unbearably arousing.

“Ready?” John said breathlessly.

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “Are you?”

“Let’s find out.” John handed a condom back to Sherlock, not evening bothering to look around. He was annoyed with the man, and even though he wasn’t going to let that ruin what might be the best sexual experience of his life, he wasn’t going to give him any free passes.

He worked on his own condom and slicked it up. Despite all the stimulation to his arse and mouth, he still wasn’t quite fully erect. But then Sherlock’s hand was there, the other pressed against his hip, and he stroked John’s prick, rutting his still-bare cock slowly in the crevice of his arse. He was hard in seconds.

John leaned forward again, and Sherlock let him go. Mycroft bent his legs up, magnificently flexible, and John climbed over him. He pressed down into another bruising kiss, and he realised that he was hoping Sherlock was watching, hoped he was jealous. With his mouth still clamped roughly onto Mycroft’s, John lined himself up with Mycroft’s stretched opening. He pushed in slowly, and Mycroft moaned into his mouth.

It was tight. Incredibly tight. Tight enough that John was afraid he was hurting Mycroft. The pressure was almost too much for his cock. He thought about pulling out, started to, when Sherlock said, “Don’t.”

John paused, arms braced on either side of Mycroft’s shoulders. Mycroft’s eyes were closed, his face twisted, his breath coming laboured. “You’re too tight,” he murmured, brushing back Mycroft’s damp ginger hair. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, but he shook his head slightly.

“He enjoys it,” Sherlock said. “The pain. He enjoys being tight.”

John very much did not want to know how Sherlock knew that. He focused on Mycroft’s face. “Do you? Are you sure?”

Mycroft nodded and slowly opened his eyes to back at John.

“Tell me to stop and I will. I swear, I don’t want to do any damage.”

“Go,” Mycroft breathed. “Fuck me.”

Something about hearing Mycroft say that, about Mycroft looking so damn wanton and flat out begging, made John’s skin flare. He continued to push in, listening carefully to Mycroft’s whimpers for any semblance of _stop_ or _no_ or _don’t_. But there were no words, just Mycroft clutching the sheets as John sank into him to the hilt.

They were both breathing heavy. John was afraid to move right away. He stared down at Mycroft, who looked right back at him. Mycroft reached up and grabbed the hair at the base of John’s skull, pulling him down into a desperate kiss. As John shifted over and moved inside of him, they groaned into each other’s mouths. John gave a few slow experimental thrusts, and gradually Mycroft loosened around him. It was still tight, but he was less worried about causing any serious injuries now. They were both going to be sore by the end of this; that was inevitable.

John remained all too aware of the man kneeling behind him on the bed, watching and waiting. Finally, John stopped, still inside Mycroft, and gave Sherlock a nod. He felt the cock against his arse instantly, further proof that Sherlock had been eager to get in on the action, as it were. But he was slow going in, slow as John’s senses went haywire and for a moment all he could do was feel—feel that cock inside him. Sherlock’s cock. Inside him. Brushing against his prostate and sending sparks through his body and the sounds that came from his mouth might have been embarrassing if that cock didn’t feel so fucking good.

It took John a second to realise why Sherlock had stopped. He registered the feel of Sherlock’s pelvis and bollocks against his arse, and recognised that Sherlock was waiting for the go ahead. Right. Reasonable enough, considering John was metaphorically and literally the centre of this. He just had to regain enough cognitive function to move with his best friend’s cock up his arse, and his own prick buried in his best friend’s brother. Sure, no problem.

Sherlock gave a little encouraging thrust, and John buckled. Cognitive function? What cognitive function? He could barely see straight. How was he supposed to move?

And then Sherlock’s mouth was on his shoulder, his left shoulder, tongue tracing scarred tissue and running up the far more sensitive curve of John’s neck, sucking at the spot on his jaw below his ear. John bucked into Mycroft, who threw his head back into the mattress with a loud guttural sound.

Sherlock’s tongue ran the curve of John’s ear, and John shuddered, arching his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock breathed hot and wet into his ear before whispering, “Let me.”

John nodded, something between a whimper and a moan bubbling up from his lungs. He leaned back over Mycroft, not allowing himself to open his eyes now, not anymore, not for Mycroft. He braced his hands on either side of Mycroft, still firmly inside him. When Sherlock slid back, John pulled out halfway. Sherlock’s fingers trailed along his hips, up his back, and took a firm hold of his shoulders. And he thrust. Oh god did he thrust.

John cried out. Plain and simple and loud. His body moved like a spring into Mycroft, but none of the force was his own. And Sherlock rammed into him again, and it hurt, but god was it wonderful. The pain barely registered over the screams of the pleasure boiling up inside him. On the third thrust, John couldn’t hold himself up anymore. He collapsed onto Mycroft, still inside him, and from there it was all up to Sherlock.

As awful as it sounded, if John could have coherently thought about it in that moment and be arsed to care, Mycroft’s presence disappeared from his mind. All that remained was the warmth below him and the grip on his cock and Sherlock pounding into him. He wouldn’t have even noticed that Mycroft came if not for the sudden fist of muscles around his cock. John screamed, rocking his forehead into Mycroft’s chest, as the pressure dragged him over the edge. As his body tightened around Sherlock’s own prick, Sherlock kept driving into him, pushing him through every aftershock until his own climax took hold and, a few erratic, shallow thrusts later, he went still.

The first thing John could focus on was the fact that he ached. All over. Every muscle, from his arse to his jaw. He didn’t want to think about how he was going to feel later. Hell, he didn’t want to think.

But he did think, because at the moment he was sandwiched between Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes after the most brilliant orgasm he’d had in a long time, if not ever. But, more poignant of the two, he was between Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had slumped onto his back at some point, and John suddenly found it difficult to breathe. He started to move, winced and regretted it. But it was enough to rouse Sherlock into motion. Sherlock lifted off of him, pulled out, and collapsed onto his side.

Next was John. His extremities shook as he moved, forcing himself up and out of Mycroft. He almost fell right back on top of him, but managed to tilt away just enough that he landed on Mycroft’s other side. The three of them lay there, no one speaking, for quite some time.

Mycroft was the first to move. He got up and went off to the bathroom, returning a few minutes later cleaned up, if otherwise looking completely debauched, and dropped a wet flannel onto John’s lap. He proceeded to dress in silence.

John took off the condom and wiped himself down, moving as little as possible. Most of the mess was Mycroft’s, from coming with his prick sandwiched between his and John’s stomachs. He passed the flannel to Sherlock, but they didn’t really look at each other.

“Well,” Mycroft said, with only his jacket to still put on. He had it folded over his arm. “That was a rather enjoyable way to spend my afternoon. Afraid they’ll start missing me at the office soon. Good evening.” And he walked out, just like that.

John was quick to break the silence that began stretching between them as soon as Mycroft was gone. “If I could move, I’d have thrown something at him.”

Sherlock chuckled, which had to be a good sign.

John grinned, but the expression immediately faded. What was a good sign here? What was he even hoping for at this point? He’d just been shagged by his best friend, someone he cared deeply for, someone he loved. He didn’t know if he was in love with Sherlock, but he wasn’t daft enough not to realise that he loved him on some level. On top of that, he’d shagged his best friend’s brother. And, quite frankly, that was more to spite Sherlock than for any other reason. He had a feeling they all knew that, though. “I didn’t know Mycroft fancied me,” John finally said.

“He doesn’t. Not now anyway. He did.” Sherlock shifted in John’s peripheral, but when he chanced a look, it was to find Sherlock had turned his face away from John.

“Was it that bad?” John tried for a joke.

“No. Nothing to do with that.”

“Then what?”

Sherlock rolled onto his side, arm folded up under his head. He glared at John, which was hard to take seriously since he was naked. “Do you want him to still fancy you?”

“No. I was just curious.” John looked at the ceiling.

“Mycroft has often claimed I’m no good for people, but he’s not any better himself.”

 _You’re good for me_. But John wasn’t ready to say that out loud yet.

“When I learned about his desirous inclinations toward you, I told him to fuck off.”

John frowned. “Did you now?”

“Yes. Although,” Sherlock paused. “I wasn’t as keenly aware of my own feelings for you at the time.”

“And when was all of this?” John pursed his lips.

“Fourteen months ago.”

So five months before Sherlock came back, Mycroft was looking to shag John. And Sherlock told him to stay off. Interesting. “Had you two ever done something like that before?”

“No. Nor had we expected things to go that route.”

John smirked. “Glad I can surprise the Holmes boys.”

“You are always a surprise, John.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, affectionate almost.

John took a deep breath. “So what now?”

“What do you want?”

He didn’t have to think about the answer, and this time he didn’t try to deny it. He rolled onto his side, forcing himself not to wince at the twinges of pain throughout his body. He looked at Sherlock, who met his gaze. “I want you.”

“Do you?” Sherlock’s brow was knitted. Anger? Uncertainty? “You seemed more interested in my brother not ten minutes ago.”

“I was angry. I’m still angry.” He closed his eyes and settled his breathing. When he opened them again, Sherlock was still staring at him. “You drive me mad in all the worst ways, and then you drive me mad in all the best ways.”

Sherlock’s mouth curled up into a smug grin. “You don’t know the best ways yet.”

John smiled, if less licentiously than his—whatever Sherlock was to him now. He put a hand on Sherlock’s narrow hip. He hadn’t had the time to study Sherlock’s body, not as much he would have liked, not as much as he wanted to now. He traced the contours of skin and muscle and tendon and bone with his eyes until he found Sherlock’s again. “Then show me.”

“Right now?” Sherlock raised his brow. “I don’t think we’ve had quite enough time to—”

John pressed his fingers over Sherlock’s mouth, over those beautiful lips. “Not now, not all now. But show me. Night after night. Take me, again and again. Until you’ve made me come every possible way you can think of, and then we’ll think of some more. Undo me, Sherlock Holmes.” He tugged at Sherlock’s hip, and Sherlock moved close enough on the bed that their knees and elbows touched. “Undo me, and then let me undo you.”

Sherlock whispered yes against his lips before John drew him into a long, lingering kiss. It was nothing like how he had kissed Mycroft, driven by arousal and spite. But it was nothing like how he had kissed anyone else either, not even the snog against the door six months ago. John didn’t want it to end, and yet, when it did, it was fine. He knew there were a lot more like it ahead of them.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [He's Mine Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/565766) by [one_blue_eye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_blue_eye/pseuds/one_blue_eye)




End file.
